


A Winter Thing

by Skipp



Category: Blink-182
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gentle Californian flower in cold ass North, I blame Parka Hoppus for this one, M/M, Mark moves to Chigaco, and guess who is his neighbour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skipp/pseuds/Skipp
Summary: Who knew Mark would have a punk guy as a neighbour. And a good looking one on top of that.





	A Winter Thing

**Author's Note:**

> First ever Skippus that I wrote. And probably my most favourite one. Originally posted as weekly chapters on my tumblr, now gathered here in one piece. 
> 
> I'm forever grateful for the feedback that I got on this one and for the wonderful people that I met thanks to writing. You're all amazing and I'm happy we get to sail the same ship (pun intended).
> 
> *****
> 
> All mistakes are mine, all characters appearing in these works are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The situations, the dialogs and other relations are all fictional. The characters have their own personalities and choices that are not those of the real people.
> 
> Do not post any of my works published here or elsewhere without my explicit permission.

Mark flicks on the lights in his kitchen and slowly shuffles towards the stove. He fills a ragged old kettle with water, places it on the burner, ignites a flame under it and uses the still burning match to light up his cigarette. The blue flame slowly twists around the bottom edge of the kettle. Mark takes a deep drag and leans against the window frame in his kitchen.

The room is warm but the heavy snowfall outside suggests that the winter in Chicago lives up to its reputation. Mark watches the snowflakes falling, only the faint sound of the burning stove and cigarette drags interrupt the silence.

If you would press your head to the very right corner of the window, you could see the main street. But his kitchen view is pointed towards the adjacent building, separated by a small gap, usually littered with trash bags and other rubbish. The brownish red brick building definitely seen better days. The attached fire stairs seems to be damaged on a couple of places, the windows now dark, asleep. The whole neighbourhood is quiet, the falling snow covering everything, giving it the illusion of pristine beauty.

The kettle starts to whistle. Mark checks the clock,  _3.30am_. He pinches his nose bridge, puts out his cig and goes to the cupboard. Fishes out a cup, dumps in two big spoons of grounded coffee, thinks for a second, adds a third and pours the boiling water in. No milk, no sugar.

He turns the kitchen lights off but stops again at the window, watching the eerie winter scenery outside. It’s so different from the winters in Cali, in Poway or LA. His sister laughed that he will be back home by the time the temperatures hit 41F. Instead of that Mark scratched a couple of bucks together and bought an old parka coat at the thrift store. The faux fur hemming was a little worn off but he didn’t mind.

Mark sighs, lights up another cig and tries not to think about the pile of papers that are waiting on his table in the next room. A big sip of coffee later he is almost ready to go back to work when a light in the opposite building window goes on.  _Oh yes please, give me distraction, anything that keeps me off work_ , Mark thinks but feels like a creep, watching from his kitchen with the lights turned off.

Apparently the room on the other side is also a kitchen. The simple cabinets have an odd beige colour and there is a small table placed right under the window, littered with beer bottles and take-away containers. A guy comes in, looking very out of place dressed in some band shirt with arms cut off, wearing a cap backwards on. Both his arms are covered in various tattoos, some colourful, some plain black. He’s apparently talking to someone out of view, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. The guy rummages through the cabinets looking for something, seemingly not finding it and angrily throwing his cig but into one of the empty bottles on the table. Mark watches him opening the fridge and taking two beer bottles out. Guy lights up another cig, does a dorky little dance and disappears out of Mark’s sight, turning the lights off.

Mark stares amused. _And now I’m supposed to continue to work huh?_  he sighs and turns from the window. Who knew he would have a punk guy as a neighbour. And a good looking one on top of that.

 

***

 

“So what’s new with you?” Ezinne asks while she runs her fingers though Mark’s hair.

They’re lounging in one of the vintage sofas at their favourite corner caffé. Behind the tall shop windows a pretty strong wind is blowing, bowing the trees and moving abandoned plastic bags along the street. But inside it’s warm, the air smells of coffee and baked goods.

Mark frowns and adjusts his head in Ezinne’s lap. The slow drag of her fingers is calming.

“I failed to meet the deadline. Again,” he groans. “On the other side, it looks like I had a really lucky hand with one of the bands we recently signed up. They’re almost finished in the studio and the mixes sound awesome.”

“That’s great, which band is it?”

“Limp Wrist.”

“Ooh, the queer dudes?” Ezinne scratches behind Mark’s ear and takes a sip from her mug. “Nice to hear that, I really enjoyed the gig at Exit.”

“Yeah, Martin, the singer, is a quite cool guy. He’s thinking about moving to Chicago… Okay, switch, I want to play with your hair too,“ Mark says and they change positions.

“You know you have the most amazing hair in the world,” he says admiring the rich texture of Ezinne’s hair.

“I know,” she smiles shaking her natural afro.

“Hey, I discovered I’ve got a cute neighbour,” Mark slowly adds.

“Soo, finally moving on, huh? Was about time,” Ezinne mildly squeezes Mark’s thigh. “I wanna hear all the details. Which flat does he stay at? How come you discovered him only now? You live in that building for half a year.”

“Eh, it’s not like that. He lives in the opposite building. My kitchen window faces his kitchen window. I only saw him during the night. I came to make coffee and the lights in his kitchen were on,” Mark sums up his three recent window sightings.

“Why so defiant,” Ezinne asks with a smirk, ”how does he look like?”

“He does not look tall, he’s about my height I guess. Probably also the same age. He has short black hair, and his arms are tattooed,” Mark describes. “And he likes good music, I saw him wearing a Hüsker Dü shirt that one time.”

Ezinne wiggles her head for more comfort. “Did you spoke to him already?”

“Noo, I doubt he knows I exist. Once he almost saw me, but I jumped away from the window. Looks like his schedule is also fucked up like mine cause I never see him during the day. And I check like, all the time.” Mark stops his fingers mid movement. “Oh god. I am a creep,” he hides his face behind hand, looking at Ezinne.

She levels herself from Mark’s lap and sits next to him. “Well next time you should probably wave at him or something like that. Or it will really turn out to be creepy.”

“Wave at him? That’s sort of bold” Mark’s voice is small. Shit, he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Blushing over some guy at the age of 29. Eh, almost 30. How pathetic.

“No, it’s normal to greet neighbours you don’t know,” Ezinne pokes him in the ribs. “Especially when they’re a cute punker.”

 

***

 

Two weeks and another ten centimeters of snow later Mark is walking home from a Saturday gig at the Exit. The bands were not special, just a mediocre street punkish combos, but he had a pleasant talk with his friends and a couple of drinks. The cold wind blows through his hair, now dyed a bright blue color. Ezinne suggested this to fight his moderate midlife crisis plus a two week long gloom over the fact that the window in the building across remained dark and empty.

Mark pulls up the parka hood and walks determined towards the image of his warm flat, hot shower and comfy bed.

He sighs happily when the doors fall close behind him and goes straight for the bathroom leaving a trail of clothes on the floor. The falling warm water pleasantly hugs him and relieves something from the weight that has been sitting on his shoulders. He blinks against the streams in his eyes, catches some of the water in his mouth, spews it out again and proceeds to wash the pub stink out of his hair.

Mark changes into his pajamas, some old threadbare shirt and favourite boxers with Mario print.  _Should get some water before sleep_ he thinks and goes to fetch a big glass of tap water to the kitchen. He switches the light on, the quick dart from the window is now a habit, and bam… there he is.

From the window across the alley, the punker dude stares directly at Mark. Mark stops and gapes at the other man. His mind is a mess of  _It’s him. Help, help! Hi! Oh, god I’m in my pajamas. Stay cool Mark. Do something! Pajamas!!!_

The punk guy is equally taken by the turn of events, face frozen in a expression of surprise. Dressed in a loose black shirt with some sort of colour splatters and black pants, nursing a cup he’s the epitome of looseness and domestic comfort. His eyebrows slowly travel to his hairline but then he grins and waves at Mark.

 _He noticed me._  For a split second Mark considered to bolt away and never come back. Now he just awkwardly stands in his kitchen, returning the friendly wave, with his heart in his throat.

Punk points at him, then to his own head and thumbs up grinning.

 _Oh, he likes my hair._ Mark is desperately trying to think of something to answer with. In the end he runs a hand through his still partially damp hair, smiles back and nods.

What follows is probably only a minute but it feels like an eternity to Mark when the two men stare at each other across the narrow alley. Punk guy breaks the moment first by smiling again, lifting his cup in a silent toast and leaving the room, the lights going off after a split second.

Mark still stands in the middle of the kitchen, trying to calm down his racing heartbeat _. Whew, that was… interesting_  Mark thinks as he is pouring himself the glass of water. He does not think he will be able to get any sort of sleep tonight.

Good thing that the building is far enough that Mark’s blush is not visible.

 

***

 

Bread, tomatoes, milk, butter, eggs, cheese, cereal, broccoli, more cereal. Mark runs down the list as he paces through the store shelves. He’s in a great mood, he’s been doing exceptionally good at work, Corey even praised him twice this month and Mark is a sucker for praising.

He stops at the candy section, snagging three bars in deep purple wrapper with Cadbury written over them. Ever since Mark got the taste of British chocolate, the US sweets tasted like sawdust to him. So as a reward for slowly mastering the adult life he gets his favourite Dairy Milk bars. The rich taste and intensive sweetness reminds him of the two awesome months he spent in London.

Maybe he could go to there again if the time is convenient. Plus he could pull a string here and there and who knows, there might be even some business done. The label could use a good European promo. Mark grins, checks the list and the items in his basket again and goes to the cashier.

At home he’s humming and singing parts of Lovecats as he gets ready to meet Ezinne, Martin and some others for a drink. He stands in the bathroom with towel wrapped around his waist, fucking around with his hair, trying to copy Robert Smith’s hairdo, but it’s too short and he has not enough hair spray. In the end he’s stuck with a serious case of bed head, a shirt with a little octopus emblem and a pair of dark jeans.

Mark retrieves his smokes and wallet from the kitchen, briefly checking the opposite window. The Punk Guy has been regulary showing up since their first face to face meeting a month ago, acknowledging Mark with a small nod or a hand wave. Ezinne tells him he’s too chicken shit to do anything but Mark is content with the way thing are. He does not want to intrude too much or seem like an obnoxious person. Maybe there is a chance they run into each other at the grocery store around the corner or in a nearby caffé. Ezinne suggested he could open the window and actually say hi, but Mark would be too nervous to talk to him.

At the club there is a cool rockabilly punk band playing, and Mark enjoys a couple of songs before he goes with Martin to get some drinks.  Mark praises the band and Martin says they‘re acquaintances of him from San Fran.

The queue at the bar is long so Mark spends the time crowd watching. There are the usual cliques, the drunks, the dating pairs… he even spots a guy, skanking next to the bar, entertaining a small crowd of what are probably his friends. Mark chuckles amused by a short ass shaking intermezzo, but then the guy turns and Mark could recognize that face in profile anywhere. It’s The Punk Guy.

Mark stares unable to do anything. His mind goes completely blank, his heartbeat races up a million and his palms are suddenly sweaty. The song finishes in a loud finale and punker falls laughing into the arms of the nearest girl. Time goes by, Mark watching both of them laughing and imitate dancing moves. The girl has a black pixie cut, movie star like smile and beautiful big eyes.  The way the two of them behave towards each other, how she’s patting the sweat off his forehead and his arms gently close around her waist, whispering some private detail into her ear, is unmistakable.

A big black gap begins to form under Marks feet.  _That’s the answer to all my late night questions_  Mark thinks, quickly turning around and crashing right into Martin.

„Oww, watch it my good man, I just bought these,“ Martin is licking the spilled drink off his hand.

„Fuck, I’m sorry! Wait I get new ones,“ Mark nervously offers and tries to move them towards the other end of the bar.

But unfortunately, today is not his lucky day.

A loud yell of „Martiiiiiin, heeeey,“ pierces the air.

With three big jumps The Punk Guy is right next to them and is hugging the shit out of Martin Sorrondeguy.

„Okay, first Mark, now you, what the hell is wrong with you people,“ Martin grumbles, but then laughs and puts the now almost empty glasses away. „Hi Matt, how are you?“

Mark is following the exchange between the two men with wide eyes and rising panic. His throat is tight, there is no escaping. First when he recognised The Punk Guy, his heart jumped with happiness but all his hopes were crashed right after that. Projecting his own dreams into some window stranger is one thing, but meeting the guy in person and under such circumstances is a completely different thing. 

Martin and the punk, apparently Matt, still sort of half hug half cling to each other. „Martin, I’m awesome! Listen, I sold one of my paintings for four grands, can you believe it? Some pretentious dick bough my stuff for four grands, and I got an offer to do an exhibition next year, haha.“ Matt launches himself off Martin and does one of the little dorky dances Mark saw him do in the kitchen. Matt‘s laugh is bright and contagious.

„That is awesome Matt, congrats, but don’t waste all the money in one week. By the way Mark, I don’t think you know my friend here. Mark, this is Matt Skiba, a good friend of mine. He’s an awesome painter and apparently, the next big thing,“ Martin smirks. „Matt, this is Mark Hoppus, the coffee addict who works for Tesco’s and Corey’s label Touch & Go.“

_Oh Hell, swallow me right now._

Two curious eyes turn on Mark. „Oh, hi… Mark. Nice to meet you,“ Matt says and offers him a hand.

And Mark is roayly fucked.

 

***

 

„Hi Matt,“ Mark is so nervous, shaking the offered hand with his own sweaty one. He meets Matt‘s soft eyes, and feels like he’s pulled forward by an invisible force. Before he’s able to say anything more Matt furrows his brow but then his whole face lights up.

„Hey wait, I know you! You’re the guy from the flat across the alley!“ Matt starts to laugh.

„Wait, what?“ Martin jumps in surprised.

„Yeah, I mean… you live on the Winthorp too, right?“

Both Matt and Martin are staring at Mark.

„Yes I do live there. I wasn’t sure… But yeah, we live across. Our kitchen windows face each other. “ Mark says it as a more of an excuse. Martin whistles.

„That is so cool, I finally meet my wild haired neighbour. That deserves a toast,“ Matt howls and waves towards the bar. „Let’s get some celebratory drinks.“

„Neighbour, huh? How come I never hear anything?“ Martin cocks one eyebrow up.

Mark’s cheeks visibly heat up. “I didn’t—,  I just—, we randomly see each other in the kitchen, that’s all.”

“I get vodka, what about my neighbour? What would you like to drink, Mark?” Matt is obviously thrilled with their meeting, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“Gin.”

“Gin? Okay. Martin do you want something special?”

“Nah. I’m fine with Cola.”

 _My own private Hell,_  Mark thinks as he’s watching Matt talking. Matt seems to be a honest person, light hearted, likes to laugh and have fun. In the meantime Mark learned that he studies art and works as a part time bike messenger. He played piano when he was younger but figured out to be more of a listener than a musician.

“I do a lot of mixed media collages and acrylic, I love gauche it’s my favorite medium,” Matt pauses, “but this must be boring to you. Me talking all the time.”

“No, no, no, please continue. It’s really interesting,” Mark reassures him. Matt is leaning against the bar in a casual, almost cocky way, hips canted out a little, hand waving a cigarette. His voice is sort of gravely, almost bedroom like.  _Of course he has to have a great voice, nice personality and be… all sorts of perfect_ , Mark nods as Matt speaks about his love for Warhol.

“…it’s important to interact with these. And then the whole sub-society meets pop culture theme. I love his works from the 60’s. I feel like all the works from this period have some sort of empty longing.”

“To be honest, Warhol’s overrated. The only thing that I find somewhat okay is his Shadows series,” Martin calms Matt’s excitement.

“Oh yeah, I love those too. I mean, I know he’s a cliché, I’m a cliché too,” Matt chuckles into his glass.

“I don’t know that much about Warhol, but I’ve been staring at Turner’s work the whole time I was in London,” Mark confesses.

“Turner’s awesome too. I’ve never been to London, but I do want to go there sometime. Now I know where you got that gin thirst,” Matt watches Mark’s empty glass. “Another?” he asks.

“No, no it’s turning out really late,” I should go, I have a meeting at 9am and I’m not a morning person.”

“Oh? Well, maybe I go with you because I have an early start too. And since we are neighbours…” Matt lets the end of the sentence hanging.

“No, no, stay, your friends are still here. You talked the whole time with us. And your girlfriend must feel lonely too,” Mark points out what has been bugging him the whole time. Both Martin and Matt laugh.

“Don’t worry about that. I just grab my things and we can go,” Matt says heading to his circle of friends.

“Have a nice trip home. Both of you. And give me a ring about the last mixes, okay?” Martin grins and waves to the bartender to order a new drink.

 

***

 

Normally Mark would listen to some music on his MP3 player, but this time it’s only Matt’s voice filling his head. It’s like meeting him again, without the buffer zone of the club or Martin’s presence. Mark thought he would be calmer, after talking to Matt almost the whole evening, but the moment they stepped out of the Fireside, Mark’s palms were sweaty again and he was aching for a calming cigarette drag. Now he’s killing the butt of his fourth cig with his heel.

Matt and Mark walk beside each other, maintaining a respectful distance, the crisp winter air fills their lungs. They settle into a pleasant conversation about their favourite bands, neither of them touching the subject of window meet ups.

“It’s really cold,“ Mark hides behind his scarf, marveling at how unaffected by the freezing temperatures Matt seems to be.

“You think so? I guess it’s only fourteen, that’s not bad,” Matt answers and Mark shivers.

“Feels like South Pole,” Mark grumbles as the frozen brown mix of snow and dirt crunches under his feet.

“What actually brought such gentle Cali flower to Chicago?” Matt genuinely wonders taking a lighter out of his pocket.

“I spend some time in London where I met Corey and he offered me to work for his label. I had nothing to go back to in Cali so I moved up here,” Mark jams hands into pockets and sighs. That was a year ago.

With a scritch the lighter pops a faint flame.

“And you moved to the flat across the alley. How funny is that. You know, it really surprised me when I realized it was you,” Matt exhales the smoke.

“Yeah, me too,” Mark gives a little smile. Now they’re only a few streets from their block.

“I really like your Batman shirt.”

“Oh, It’s a really old one. I bought it when I was like, twenty two, I guess. So you’re a Batman fan?” Superheroes are a good theme to keep Mark off thoughts about what’s gonna happen when they arrive at the building entrance.

“Yea, Batman… and Wonder Woman.”

Their talk continues to trashing Superman and then they both argue about DC. Mark occasionally peers at Matt, he tries to remember as much as he can, throwing little sneaky glances. Matt’s face looks different under the sharp street light, time to time veiled by the dark. He appears to be around the age of thirty, Mark recalls the slightly reclining hair line, now hidden under a newsboy hat.  _But there is still generous amount of black hair to grab at._ Mark blinks, quickly hiding the flush deeper in his scarf.

Matt is a handsome guy, only a couple of inches taller than Mark, with a lean build. His face features are quite symmetric, high cheekbones, a nice jawline with slightly pointed chin and expressive blue eyes set evenly apart. Mark likes their crystal clear blue color, shimmering with grey dots. And then there are Matt’s lips. Perfectly kissable, with prominent cupid’s bow, the corners turned a little bit upwards. Mark mentally slaps himself.  _Focus._

They take the turn to Winthorp and both of them slow their pace.

“Soo, how ‘bout a coffee?” Matt asks with anticipation.

“Oh, now?” Mark almost panics. For a fleeting moment he wished Matt would go up with him.

“No, I meant like, Wednesday. Or we could go for a dinner or so? There’s a cool place that serves great Indian food, near Sunnyside. If you’re interested,” Matt corrects with mild tone.

 “Ah, sure, sure, sorry. I was a little bit—,” Mark tries to fix the awkward moment.

“No, it’s fine, you don’t need to excuse yourself,” Matt assures him, his eyes giving off an amused impression. “If you’re okay with Wednesday I’ll pick you up. Let’s say… seven?”

“Yeah, seven is fine.” Mark is stunned.  _Is this a date?_

Matt smiles and then yawns. “G'nite Mark Hoppus. Hope to see you on Wednesday.”

 

****

 

It’s almost seven and Mark is nervously pacing around his flat. He changed his shirt three times and checked his hair at least five times. Now he feels tightness in his chest, heart beating faster as he waits.

The loud buzz of the doorbell startles him.

“Yes, hello?” he picks up the house phone.

“Hi, I forgot to ask for your flat number, so I’m just ringing from down here,” Matt answers.

“No problem, be right there,” Mark breathes. He hangs up the phone, puts on shoes, his parka and checks the hair in the mirror for the last time.

Matt is waiting outside the entrance door, slowly exhaling little clouds of warm breath into the freezing air while tapping out some rhythm with his left foot. Mark involuntarily notices the little tighter fit of his pants. He exhales and grabs the door handle.

When he opens the door Matt’s whole face lights up.

“Hi, ready?”

“I had not eaten since lunch so it better be good,” Mark admits. His stomach was doing all sorts of things as the evening was getting closer.

The food is delicious. Mark gets a second helping of garlic naan to his chicken madras and tries a bit of Matt’s vegetable phall which he regrets immediately.

“Jesus,” tears well up in Mark’s eyes. His mouth is on fire.

“I warned you. Here, try a bit of sugar, that should help it,” Matt laughs passing him the sugar bowl.

Mark swallows a spoon of sugar and prays that the burning pain will pass as fast as possible.

“Dammit, it’s way hotter than I thought,” Mark reaches for his drink.

“Haha, well, I like all kinds of hot stuff,” Matt chuckles looking at Mark who chokes on his water.

The rest of the evening goes fine. When there is a break in conversation, the silence feels easy and natural, no one tries to patch it with a forced comment. On the way home they stop for a drink at a bar and Mark’s head is pleasantly buzzing, it’s the best he’s felt in a long time.

Everything about Matt feels natural, calming yet there is a hidden edge. Like some sort of force that moves just under the surface, not breaking it. Mark notes Matt’s casual confidence, the way he uses hand gestures, likes to abuse his old beaten zippo lighter or talks in not complete sentences when he’s excited. The certain glint in the eye he gets when he speaks about inspiration. Or the way Matt’s mouth corners twitch, the way he runs his long fingers through his hair. Artist hands Mark thinks, with well groomed nails and slim knuckles. Almost like a guitarists ones, Mark remembers and smiles without joy.

The only moment he’s unsure is when Matt talks about his co-artist, Lene. Apparently it’s that black haired girl from the Fireside. The two of them hired a studio together and Matt avidly talks about their plan for an upcoming art event. It sounds very interesting, yet Mark can’t get rid of the pang of jealousy he feels when Matt talks about Lene, all warm eyes and big smile.

They talk a lot and Matt promises Mark to take him to see his work in the studio. Mark has to admit he still has no idea how things really are with Matt. I mean there is Lene, except this looks like it’s a date, also feels like it… the way they naturally broke into each other private spaces, casually brushing their shoulders and knees. But it still lingers in Mark’s mind.

At the end, when they’re standing in front of Mark’s building Matt is watching him with and expression that Mark would otherwise call fond. He wonders if he should somehow prolong the moment to create and opportunity, but Matt solves the problem by setting a time for his studio visit. Friday afternoon.

A little bit nervous and a little bit buzzed, Mark tries not to concentrate on the line of Matt’s neck disappearing below the collar of his jacket. His eyes are sparkly blue and when they embrace as a goodbye, Mark can smell the smoke and a faint trace of cologne on Matt. Jesus, if Mark turned his head he could bury his nose behind Matt’s ear and drown. Their hug lasts a second longer and Matt pulls off with a small smile playing his lips.

“See you on Friday, don’t wear nice clothes, the atelier is messy,” he turns with a wink and trotts off to the other building.

 _I need to call Ezinne_  Mark thinks when he opens the door to his flat and goes to make himself a cup of coffee.  _This’s gonna be long._

In the kitchen he sees the light in the opposite building going on and Matt’s silhouette waves at him, suggesting a good night.

The hour long talk makes him confide things to Ezinne, but discreetly withholding how a certain punk is not only ruining his life but his dreams as well.  _He’s gonna tell you if he’s interested and how are things with that girl,_  Ezinne said. That definitely lifted up Mark’s mood when he started to panic that he’s fucking it up and Matt is actually not interested.

Now in his bed Mark’s heart doing little somersaults staring at the ceiling, a warm feeling settling deep in his stomach.  _Friday._

 

_***_

 

The building on the South Halsted looks surprisingly modern. Matt explained that the place is hired by the Art Dep. and they give off ateliers to young artists for a reasonable price.

“I don’t exactly fit the age limit for the place since it’s given preferably to students under twenty six, but Lene pulled a couple of strings for me,“ Matt explains while unlocking a door and entering a large space that looks like it’s shared by more than two artists.

Mark is right at his heels. “Nice,” he says while trying to sort out the quirky chaos around him. The space radiates energy, creativity and chaotic friendliness, accommodating the artists with their unorthodox sense of order and various demeanors.

“Would you like something to drink?” Matt asks heading towards one of the corners. “We’ve got beer, soda, some rye, and I’m sure Lene bought coffee.”

“Yeah, coffee would be perfectly fine. Make it black.” Mark is completely fascinated by the large surroundings. There is probably a spacecraft hidden here in all the mélange. The high ceilings, iron pillars, huge windows, stacks of unidentified materials, a central sitting space with three large shabby brow sofas, color stained table, stacks of various size frames and wooden boards waiting for their turn…

“Sure thing,” Matt answers from what appears to be a kitchenette hidden behind a wall of wooden planks.

“No need to hurry,” Mark stares at the chaos around him. He can tell where Matt’s corner is. A huge pentagram made out of wires and hopefully artificial bones hangs above a corner, two easels with unfinished paintings, a table littered with various art books, candles, bottles of wine, some sort of suspicious altar with a painted goat skull.  _Should I be worried?_ Mark asks himself.

“Can, can I browse some of your stuff?” Mark hints at a heap of canvases that are tucked away in the far corner.

“Yeah, yeah, suit yourself. My corner is the one with the pentagram, feel free to discover,” Matt shouts back and pours steaming water into two mugs.

“Yeah, I figured,” Mark answers, touching the canvases lined in a row. Each of the abstract works has a different color scheme and a world to its own. The last one is not abstract though, it’s a portrait of Lene. She appears to be lying on her side, the focus is mostly on her face and eyes. Mark leans in lower to see the details.

“Here’s your coffee,” Matt brings them the mugs.  _Not paint water_  is written on one of them.

“No wonder you were so zealous about postmodernism and the works of Marc Bijl,” Mark gestures around the place.

“Haha, well aren’t all great artist inspired by the devil?” Matt laughs and takes a sip from his drink. “Naah, it’s an interest in the figurative sense rather than a practical one. If offers me to explore a certain duality in life, it represents a catharsis of the values which our culture represents. For example this,” he says and points towards the abstract work on the easel. “It’s like missing someone, as well as the excitement of feeling that desire,” he finishes referring to an unfinished sculpture standing right next to it.

“Oh, you do sculptures too?” Mark wonders, tasting the not paint water. It’s not that bad.

Matt flails his hand. “No, that’s one of Lene’s. We both came up with the idea to combine our ideas into complementary installations. I’ll do my work in acrylic and Lene will then add her mirror collage or a sculpture.“

 _How fitting,_ Mark’s heart sinks. “It must be exciting, doing art together with the person you love,” he remarks lifelessly.

“Lene has a heart of gold, she puts up with so much of my shit and I love her for it, but we don’t date.” Matt turns to Mark and stares at him. Mark misses his next breath. “We dated but it didn’t worked out. We’re better at art than relationships. Plus I don’t really fancy girls lately,” finishes Matt.

 “I understand,” Mark tries to hide his blush behind the mug while taking a big gulp. “Sharing space with her or the other guys is practical, huh? I can imagine it’s easier for inspiration too?”

“Everybody is different when it comes to inspiration. I’m pretty sure an article with the topic  _Funny Shit Bored Artists Do_  circulated the local newspapers a couple of times. I can’t even count the occasions that I walked onto somebody fucking here. Last time they made against the wall to the sound of Wham’s  _Last Christmas_ … can you believe it? I had to put on a decent record. To give credit, the other guy had an awesome ass,“ Matt nods appreciatively.

Mark chokes on his coffee.

“Oh my god, did I say something inappropriate?” Matt laughs.

“No! No, it’s fine. That must have been an experience,” Mark quickly files in.

“Yeah, we have a lot of fun here.” Matt pats his pockets for cigarettes and offers one to Mark.

A lifesaver Mark thinks. He offers his lighter and they both inhale the smoke in silence, gazing at the evidence above the door. Outside behind the tall windows clouds quickly gather, promising a fun wet time.

“I envy how the both of you are having such a great relationships despite the fact that you broke up,” Mark can’t stop but sourly marvel at their attitude.

“Relationships are not rocket science, and once you’re past the love part then you’re ready to be really good friends,” Matt shrugs and plays with the cig pack.

“What went wrong with your last relationship, if I may ask,” Matt gently pokes Mark’s side.

Mark faces the other way, his lungs giving off a long exhale full of smoke. “There’s not much to tell… the best explanation— I think, I read it as a quote somewhere.  _How do you know when it’s over? When you feel more in love with your memories than with the person standing in front of you.”_

Mark stares at the cig but between his fingers. He has an almost overwhelming urge to reach for Matt, pull him close and bury his face into Matt’s chest. A moment of silence slowly passes.

“Well, shit happens. Want a drink?” Matt lifts one eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’d love to. But let’s go somewhere else,” Mark brushes it off. He does not think he can manage to stay at the studio, comparing the ghost of his own failed relationship.

They close off the atelier and the Chicago winter rewards them with the promised downpour and strong wind blows. On the street is not a damn cab in sight. They manage to catch one after a while, but they’re soaked to the bones. The driver winces when the dry and clean passenger seats squeak stiffly beneath their weight.

“Finally,” Matt groans in delight. Mark nods, chattering his teeth.

“Could you please take us to the Winthorp 225, Northside?” Mark asks the driver.

Matt’s face lights up with a surprised smile.

The driver nods and cab rolls off from the pavement.

 

***

 

“Wow, you have  _Immediate Action_ from Strike Under?” Matt studies a vinyl sleeve. “So many things from the local scene, that is so rad. Oh and Slapstick! Have you met Brendan already? Like, if you haven’t yet… fuck, is this the  _Love’s Easy Tears_?! You gotta be shitting me!” Matt picks his way through the lines of the perfectly organized music collection in Mark’s living room.  

The wifi spins with the latest Ani DiFranco CD. Mark was more than surprised when Matt picked the record and stuffed it into the player. And also keen to see him pointing out favourite artists.

They arrived soaking wet. Mark offered Matt to have a drink, plus some leftover soup. Now Matt sits cross legged on the floor between piles of CDs and other paraphernalia, wearing Mark’s borrowed sweats and shirt. The scene looks domestic, like Matt always belonged on Mark’s floor, drinking out of a mug, talking the latest music releases.

 Matt gives ratings to records from  _don’t even try_  to  _needs to be played on special occasions, like my funeral._ The list is endless and Mark mostly agrees. The Effigies, Girls Against Boys, Shellac, Dinosaur Jr., as well as Bauhaus, The Birthday party et cetera. When it comes to the  _Japanese Whispers_  a heated debate sprouts whether _The Lovecats_  is better than  _Love Song._

“Love Song is the most straightforward love declaration ever. Free of redundant words, it’s a pure and simple confession of your feelings and I like that,” Mark says watching Matt turn the CD case in hands.

“I wish everything was so clear like you think. You know, sometimes you don’t feel things the simple way. I get the mood in  _Love Song_ , it’s a great one, but  _Lovecats_  describe the time before that. When your heart is all over the place. For me it comes in waves. When you start to understand that it’s not a crush that goes away, but it’s something more.” Matt runs his fingers over the case and looks at Mark.

“Three am walks home. The little moments, ice cream eating on the bench or just talking and having the same opinions or tastes. You are all worked up, dizzy with happiness that you share the same things with the person you love. It illustrates the process of falling in love rather than confessing.” Matt smiles shyly, just a hint of crow’s feet around his eyes, showing there is another layer to the confident and jovial person Mark gets to see.

“I like being in love. The steady feeling of having someone at your side. Yet after some time you tend to forget how it happened. The sweet stomach lurch after you grab someone’s hand, the fever rush when you kiss for the first time. Correct me if I’m wrong.” Matt’s eyes pace around Mark’s face and finally drop to his lips.

“No, you’re not wrong,” Mark replies, throat dry. The distance between them sitting on floor seems painfully short.  _Dammit, do something, you’re thirty years old, chicken ass!_  He could reach forward and put an end to the restless doubts in his head once and for all. Except he still hesitates.

Matt does not. He lays the case down on the rug and bows forward. It looks like he is going to kiss Mark, ends instead bumping his forehead against Mark’s. Matt’s shallow breath, the cold wet hair, the intense blue of his eyes, nervously twitching mouth corner. All this creates a bubble in time and space just for them.  Matt’s hand reaches, fingers creeping up Mark’s forearm, each feather-light touch inducing goosebumps. Mark feels like vibrating out of his skin. He squeezes Matt’s other hand.

It all feels so easy when Matt finally closes the distance, lips soft and slightly chapped on Mark’s. It’s tender and borderline maddening, forcing him to close eyes. Mark feels the warmth of Matt’s hand slowly caressing his face, the first playful tug on lower lip when Matt bites it, testing the shallow water. He opens his mouth to let Matt in. Matt makes a desperate and hungry sound, grabbing and drawing him closer.

Time has no value for them. The only thing that matters is how Matt tastes of coffee, the faint smoky smell, fingers skating through damp hair, over the tendors in his neck. When their lips part, Matt is breathing hard, cheeks stained red, lips slightly swollen. He grins, dropping little kisses at Mark’s temples, dragging nose along the ear line and nuzzles his neck. Mark shudders.

 

***

 

“And what happened next?” Ezinne quirks an eyebrow.

Across the restaurant table Mark’s hand grips the wine glass stem. “We made out on the floor, in the middle of my CD collection,” he shyly breathes into the glass, cheeks all pink from the memory.

“Huh, are you telling me that you didn’t went down on him? I got the impression you want to climb the guy like a tree.”

Mark puts the glass back on the table, scanning their surroundings. Nearest people are two sittings away from them, the waiters are serving guests on the other side of the room.

“God knows I do, like any given moment. To be near him is like torture. He can be anything. Rough edges and witty comebacks when someone tries to fuck him over. But also smooth and suave like the other day when we went to a book reading. He was dressed in a black button-up shirt, black pants and those thick rimmed glasses. Only the edges of his tattoos were peeking out of the cuffs. I thought I was gonna fall to my knees right there, in the middle of the library.” Mark’s forehead hits the table in front of him. He whines helplessly. “I feel like I’m burning, falling and drowning at the same time. It’s like my skin will blister from the heat when he touches my arm,” Mark sighs. “Matt is smart and attentive, witty, utterly charming and just…  _aaargh_.” Mark mildly slams his head against the table, whining again.  

Ezinne laughs heartily, her dark skin shimmering and reflecting the mellow candle light. “Oh, Mark, this is so sweet. You’re so head over heels. Like an ice cube set on fire. ”

It’s true, Mark feels both at ease and on the edge around Matt.

When Mark leaves on Friday the Touch & Go office, he heads straight for Matt’s atelier. Matt is stirring some paint hues in glass bowls.

“I’ll be done in a minute,” he shouts towards Mark who has a nearly irresistible impulse to kiss him right there on the spot.

“No problem,” Mark answers rocking on the balls of his feet. “I have the master of Sorrondeguy’s record, wanna hear it?”

“Sure why not, we can order some takeaway.” Matt’s wiping off the brushes into a stained piece of cloth.

Mark watches the movement of his arms and sighs. “Whatever you want.”

Mark orders Chinese for both of them and Matt is once again browsing through Mark’s CD collection. When the delivery comes they spread out with the boxes and drinks on the table in the living room, listening to the promised master.

“I don’t know why are you so afraid. It sounds awesome,” Matt compliments the record while licking the remaining teriyaki drops off his thumb.

“It’s my first production for Corey, I want to do a good job.”

“It’s perfect, you’re overthinking it too much.”

“Eh,” is all Mark can manage. Maybe Matt is right, maybe he is too avid for it, but Mark wants to do more than a good work. Not only because Corey gave him the change. He feels obliged to Martin. That’s why he stresses it so much.

 “Want to try the Suan cai?” Mark offers the box of pickled cabbage to Matt.

 “Hell no,” Matt scrunches his nose, dabbing into his serving of fried tofu.

“What do you mean ‘hell no’, no one disrespects Suan cai in my house,” Mark says with played outrage. “You haven’t even tried it! Come on, try it,” he shoves chopsticks with one bite in front of Matt’s mouth.

“No, no, please,” Matt swats his hand laughing. The cabbage falls on the carpet.

“How dare you to soil my Persian carpet,” Mark pretends anger.

“I don’t think they make Persians with grandma patterns like this,” Matt makes a face and sticks out tongue at him.

“That’s it!” Mark pounces at Matt who yelps trying to save his food. The piece of tofu flies in the other direction and Matt is busy defending himself from Mark. The fight is short but intense, they slide off the couch and wrestle on the floor. Mark takes no hostages when it comes to tickling. Shrieks and giggles fill the apartment air.

“Stop it, I swear, I’ll scream so loud your neighbours will call the cops,” Matt chuckles between gasps of air.

“I don’t care,” says Mark darkly, “I have tickled men for less. Now admit that The Penguin was a much better Batman villain than Mr. Freeze.” Mark pins Matt down.

“What? How did we came to this? I thought we settled this the last time. Now were fighting over pickled cabbage and lousy carpets.” Matt laughs.

“You have to seize the moment,” Mark growls and straddles him, slamming hands on both sides of Matt’s head.

“I give up,” Matt is breathing heavily, trying to wriggle out of the grip of Mark’s tights. Unsuccessfully.

“I accept your surrender,” Mark lowers himself. Matt’s disheveled look, hair sticky with sweat and broken panting is doing things to him.

“Mark Hoppus, you’re the biggest dork ever,” Matt smiles as Mark’s breath hitches. Matt’s hand reaches to cradle Mark’s jawline, thumb running over cheekbones. He draws Mark closer to kiss him. The kiss deepens and Mark wants everything that the sweet drag of Matt’s tongue offers. The drowning, the boiling heat, the endless fall.

“I want you,” Mark whispers, indulging the way how Matt tastes the skin of neck. His other hand is tucked under Mark’s shirt, fingers pressed low against spine. Mark gives up, lying sprawled mostly on top of Matt. Legs tangled together, they slowly roll on the floor, both hard. Mark’s hands find their way under Matt’s shirt, running thumbs over his nipples. Matt’s whole body curls upwards in response.

“Mmm, so good,” Matt hums. His dick feels like a solid line against Mark’s stomach.

“Maybe we should move this to bed?” Matt offers.

 

***

 

“Yeah, we should,” Mark swallows, slowly untangling himself from Matt.

They get up, tumbling towards the bedroom. Matt uses the occasion to press Mark into the door and kiss him senseless. After he pulls off, Mark is reduced to a dazed mess, hair hanging over his forehead.

“This is such a good look on you,” Matt chuckles, reaching for the door handle.

Mark’s bedroom is nothing but a simple bed and books filling up every space. Overloaded bookshelfs on the walls give away his second biggest interest.  _Oh shit, I forgot to make the bed._

“Oh, that is a pleasant surprise,” Matt notes, “what other things are you hiding from me? Secret passion for wrestling?”

“Hah no, I only like music and books. And Mexican food. And you,” Mark smiles

“That was a cheesy line, but I like that,” Matt catches Mark by the waist and pulls him in for another kiss.

They stagger somewhat unsteadily to the bed, dropping and landing in the unmade sheets. Stripping off shirts between making out is definitely fun and Mark gets on top of Matt, taking his time to explore the drawings on Matt’s skin. Au contraire to the popular belief, the skin over tattoos does not taste different. Mark smiles to himself and moves mouth over to Matt’s nipple.

“Ah,” Matt moans. He throws his head back, hitting the pillow, fingers frantically scraping over Mark’s hair and neck. He looks breathtaking, mouth open, eyes closed with the column of his throat exposed. Mark adds just a tiny hint of teeth.

“Mark!” Matt croaks out, opening eyes and locking gaze with him. He’s breathing hard and Mark can’t help but be a little proud of his own work. He moves forth to face the blissed-out artist in his bed. Matt presses in for a languid kiss while his hands slip between them.

“Can I?”

“Please,” Mark says softly.

Matt is slowly unbuckling Mark’s belt and unzipping pants. His hand slips in, rubbing Mark through his boxers. Mark’s eyes fall shut under the sensation of Matt’s fingers. He shivers, blindly searching for Matt’s lips. He can’t help it but to buck hips against Matt’s palm, growing harder under the hot touches.

They roll around in the sheets, sighs and moans filling the small room. Matt gets rid of his pants and boxer briefs in chaotic clumsy movements, tossing them to the ground. He lifts a brow when Mark starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Matt rolls over to Mark and starts to drag the remaining clothing items off his legs.

“I’m stress laughing, I know I’m awkward. You bike and you’re all lean muscle and I’m an office worm who does zero sport,” Mark nervously adds. He’s always been a little bit self-conscious about his body.

“Oh come on, that’s absolutely no problem. Besides, I love to watch,” Matt’s eyes glint.

Mark smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Matt finishes the movement and the pants and boxers join the pile of clothing on the bedside.

“You are perfect, way more than perfect,” Matt whispers, straddling Mark who is ruddy red all the way down his chest. He settles right over Mark’s lap, their flushed cocks brushing together.

Watching Matt above him, panting and so fucking pretty, makes Mark sigh happily. His eyes drop down to their laps. He’s not a size queen, but  _god damn_. Maybe Matt will let him blow him?

Matt dips forward, pressing kisses to the hollow of Mark’s throat, slowly rocking and circling his hips. Their cocks slide against each other, the sensation is almost unbearable for Mark. He runs his hands frantically over Matt’s shoulders and back. His mouth finds Matt’s lips while he trails over tattooed sides down to thighs in a meaningful tease.

Matt smiles into the kiss and detaches himself. Sitting back on his heels he skims hands down Mark’s belly. Past hipbones, following the faint fuzzy trail and lower. Mark draws in a ragged breath as Matt drags fingers slowly over his balls.

The anticipation is killing him. Matt chuckles. Mark feels like swimming in lust when Matt licks the palm of his hand and curls fingers around him. The flow of slick movements only adds to the ecstasy, fingers tracing the head of his cock.

“Don’t stop, keep going–, fuck!” Mark greedily mumbles between breaths.

“Just wait,” Matt calms him and adds his own cock to the game. His fingers lock around them and  _jesus christ, this is pure heaven._

“Are you complaining?” Matt asks leaning forward on the other hand, hovering right over Mark’s face. His wide blown pupils with red stained cheeks are giving away that he’s equally affected.

“No, I’m not–,” Mark blurts out, letting Matt control the pace, stroking them both, long fingers quickly moving with determination.

Now the kisses are hungry and sloppy, every stroke of Matt’s hand pulls the breath from him. The sharp, aching wave of heat washes over him again and again. Matt groans with delight, biting Mark’s bottom lip and sucking on it. The angle of his hand changes, working them hard and faster.

Mark gives up. “Fuck,” his body curves into Matt’s, coming into the hot and sweaty place between them. The burning pleasure consumes every inch of air in his lungs.

Matt chokes a breath, releasing Mark’s oversensitive cock from his grip and with a couple of pulls he spurts hot and thick all over Mark’s belly. His chest is still heaving rapidly when he collapses next to Mark.

They’re both panting hard, Matt with eyes closed, relishing in the afterglow. Mark taps the floor and cleans them up with the found t-shirt.

“Shower later,” Mark suggests while Matt nods with approval. Mark combs fingers through his disheveled mop of hair, tracing Matt’s jaw with his fingertips. Matt smiles and pulls him close.

There’s no rush, no desperation. Just the lazy, sweet touch of Matt’s lips, the familiar shape of his mouth.

 

***

 

Mark wakes up curled up on side, pressed against Matt’s back, face nuzzled to his neck. He’s hyper-aware of every inch of skin pressed together because Matt radiates heat like a big electric blanket. It feels pretty awesome, waking up limbs entangled, all warm and comfy.

Mark carefully unhooks his hand from where is it placed around Matt’s waist and rests his other elbow on the pillow, supporting his head. Matt moves just a tiny bit, not waking up yet.

Mark watches Matt asleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the strands of hair curling on the back of his head, the curve of his ear and neck. The tiny twitch moving his fingers, placed on the pillow next to his face. The sun comes through the window, the rays are bathing his inked arms and chest. Something in Mark’s chest moves, like the last piece of puzzle would click to its place. He runs a hand down Matt’s back, getting a soft hum in response. Mark shifts closer and snuggles up behind Matt, both basking in the mellow sunlight.

The cold Chicago wind seems to be more bearable with the first sign of spring. They regularly meet up on the way home. Matt usually pushes his bike as he walks with Mark home, chatting away about what happened at work or studio. They reach their street and then walk to Mark’s doorway.

“Do you want coffee?” Mark asks when Matt places his bike in the small hall.

“Yeah, I’d love to!”

Matt follows Mark to the kitchen, briefly stopping at the window to stare at the opposite side of the alley way. In the window across you can see a workman, standing on stepladder, painting the plain white walls with a peach coloured coat.

“Oh, looks like my old flat has a new lessee.”

“Yeah, I noticed it the other day,” Mark hums as he pours two cups of black coffee and takes them to the window. Matt accepts his steaming mug with a small nod. They stand next to each other in silence, watching the workman run the paint roller down the wall again and again.

“Who knew it would lease so fast,” Matt says nudging Mark’s hand and lacing their fingers together.

“It’s mainly because you get the coolest neighbours,” Mark smiles into his coffee.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun resourcing stuff about Chicago's neighbourhoods and real life locations. Google Street view is a gem.
> 
>  
> 
> If you don't know who Martin Sorrondeguy is... I suggest you check him, his band Limp Wrist and the things he does for LGBT scene out.


End file.
